


Tougher Than The Rest

by inbox



Series: GUNISHER [1]
Category: Cable (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Frottage, GUNISHER, Hand Jobs, Light CBT, M/M, Muscles, Nipple Play, Non-Penetrative Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:08:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/pseuds/inbox
Summary: Frank paces out his beer and avoids looking at his watch, trying to delay his irritation for as long as possible. Late. For a guy who supposedly time travels as a job, Cable is goddamn terrible at showing up on time.





	Tougher Than The Rest

**Author's Note:**

> This owes a lot to [SenkoWakimarin's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin) GUNISHER fics; I'm 99% sure I've (unintentionally) outright stolen a few key descriptions and for that I humbly apologise in advance. 
> 
> This is mostly comix Frank, with a sprinkling of the things I like best about the world's prettiest meathead from TV'S Punisher.

Look, it's not the kind of bar Frank would normally go to. He's not a dive guy, not any more, but this place is well out of his wheelhouse, all well-lit with subway tile and marble everywhere. There's a cocktail menu full of booze he's never tried, and when he orders a cheeseburger off the bar menu it arrives barely bigger than his palm, and half of it served up on little spoons to add further insult to injury.

He paces out his beer and avoids looking at his watch. Late. For a guy who time travels as a job, Cable is goddamn terrible at showing up on time.

If he checks the time too much he knows he’s gonna get mad and his headache is gonna get worse and then his entire day will have been shot in the ass. Instead he wastes his time and distracts himself by reading the cocktail menu from start to finish, avoiding the bartender’s attempt to sweet talk him into ordering something. _Something coffee based, handsome, something bitter and black._

He’d award points for accuracy but it’s not the hardest guess in the world, deciding the guy with the shiner might be a coffee, black kinda guy. He hasn't heard of half the shit on the menu and didn't care much for the stuff he has heard of.

Last time he had a cocktail it was some whipped yellow monstrosity called a fluffy duck, with two Pringles for a beak. Some wiseass goon made a show of buying it for him, trying to be funny and distract him from his mark. He drank it one chug then put the guy through a pool table.

Doubtful they make fluffy ducks here. Doubtful they even have a pool table.

Little spoons. What's the point.

He sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the suits and slicks, with his split lip and an aged black eye that's at the pimento olive stage of healing. He looks, and feels, like dogshit, but this place ain't the kind of spot that encourages wallowing. Too expensive for that. They haven't kicked him out yet, or even put a name to his face. It was a good choice by Cable, no matter how many suspicious looks the day traders in Italian wool suits might give him. No one in their right mind is going to look for him here, except the guy who actually invited him out for a drink and still hasn't shown up.

He grinds his teeth and sinks the last of his beer, ready to scoop his keys and leave.

 _Castle_.

He doesn't react. He knew instinctively Cable was around the moment he felt the little fizzing pressure at the base of his skull as Cable noses in through his brain, slipping in behind his eyes long before he takes the barstool at Frank's right with a nod to the bartender.

It's so goddamn rude. He fucking hates it, his head being barged in like that.

“Get out,” he says into his empty glass, and ignores the dirty look the barback gives him.

Cable has a real name, sure. Nathan. Frank thinks he's called him that exactly once, the first time they crossed paths while working their respective beats. He'd put a week into gathering intel on a smuggling operation running out of the Baltimore docks, all blown to shit ‘cause mutants were involved and it turns out that even _homo superior_ has their own wetworks guys. Cable had slammed into his head ‘bout as hard as his hand slammed into Frank’s chest, knocking the breath outta him  as he rifled through Frank’s brain to sieve out every shred of intel before dropping him to the deck like a sack of potatoes.

Whatever he saw must've been acceptable, ‘cause he told Frank to either join him or get out. He'd gritted his teeth and joined. Better than making another enemy. Better to have two big guns than just one. Better to have two people to sweep a coal freighter from stem to stern, better two people to witness the ship break its back in the water as an explosion ripped the keel apart deep under the waterline.

“Cable,” he'd said, offering his hand to Frank as the heat of that first fireball faded from their cheeks. “Nathan.”

“Nathan,” he'd repeated, giving him one sharp shake before jerking himself free. “Good work.”

“I manage,” said Cable blandly. “You helped.” He slung his rifle over his back and given Frank a shrewd up and down look. “I might be in touch. I think you and I may have some overlapping interests, Frank. Bodyslide by one.”

He'd been so startled by the sharp crack of air rushing to fill the void left by Cable’s instant disappearance that it took him far, _far_ too long to realise he'd never offered Cable his name in return.

He works his first gig with Cable a month later, then again a month after that, and regularly after that. Sometimes their paths genuinely cross, chasing the same shitkickers and assholes, but mostly Cable calls him in when he needs a job done clean and complete, unhindered by the long spectre of Charles Xavier’s ideas about mercy. Sometimes Cable just needs an op executed by someone less flamboyant, less showy, less… mutant-y than Cable's usual roster of carnival attractions. Whatever. Frank can't set shit on fire with his mind but he can take a beating and deal it back twice as hard and keep on moving, and that's more than enough to make up for not having a glowing eye and a tail or some freaky mutant shit.

It’s good work, busier over the summers when the criminal underworld decides to put in some work while the weather is nice. Worthy targets, lowlifes and scum. Cable makes good tactical calls most of the time, earning Frank's trust after much careful assessment. He knows his strategy and leads from the front. Cable has never pointed him at someone who didn't deserve anything better than an unkind death and, most importantly, Cable's anonymous payments arrive quickly into his bank account.

Felt weird about that part for a while, doing mercenary work. Never trusted operators as a rule in the service, all high speed low drag idiots to the last, and as far as he's concerned the mercenaries in New York are all clowns without a circus. Worked through that issue real quick though. The jobs weren't anything he wouldn't do for free, and the targets were always people that'd end up on his shitlist eventually anyway. Might as well get paid for the satisfaction of a job well done, working with someone he has a modicum of respect towards.

And, yeah, maybe he finds the guy attractive. That's a hidden bonus that he keeps locked down tight. Frank’s a professional. He can compartmentalise, keep all that thinking with his dick strictly for his off the clock hours, but there's no harm in looking once the job is done.

He sneaks a glance without turning his head. Cable looks at ease, ordering a round with a flirty wink at the bartender. There's an amused little crease ‘round the corners of his eyes, and Frank feels faintly annoyed with himself that he knows to look for that kinda tell to begin with.

“Your Ithaca flop sucks,” he says eventually. “Fire your interior decorator.”

He'd borrowed it last week to lay low and rebuild his van. He'd almost risked turning around and driving straight to the nearest Walmart when he realised that Cable's idea of safe house comfort was a giant soft bed, a coffee maker, and not much else. It’d been nice to get out of the city, sure, but for some reason he’d half expected Cable to go hard on the small luxuries in life.

The reply lights up in his head. _You offering your services?_

 _You couldn't afford me_ , he thinks back. He's getting better at moderating his volume of his thoughts. Cable no longer winces quite as hard when he tries to talk in his head, but he still shifts a little on his seat and scowls at Frank.

Cable clears his throat, looking him up and down. “You look out of sorts.”

“I got a headache and I walked into a doorknob. Take your pick.”

“If you want to do this another day--”

“I’m here,” says Frank, more terse than he knows is really warranted. “Drink up.”

Cable gives him a discomfitingly knowing look and reaches over, brushing Frank’s hair back from his forehead. He’s about to knock him away when Cable strokes his thumb down his temple and gives him a little smile that makes Frank’s stomach flip before his mind is unceremoniously blasted out of his skull.

A colossal force of taste and touch and sound careens through his brain. The overwhelming silent cacophony is locked within his skull, rising and roaring like a wave until it peaks into complete nothingness.

It's like getting his mind scoured out with steel wool and he's got a horrible feeling that he's making some kind of guttural groan without realising.

When it's over there's a sense of empty peace in his head. The tension headache that's been threatening to swarm up his neck since lunchtime is suddenly gone.

Cable looks smug. Of course. He gives Frank’s temple one last light stroke with that deceivingly gentle big murderous hand and retreats back outta Frank’s personal space.

The bartender coughs politely and sets down two fresh beers, looking between them both like a spectator at a tennis match.

“New age healing,” says Cable serenely.

“Fun trick,” says Frank into his fresh beer. _You do that for everyone?_

_Only the people who deserve it._

He can't help but notice that there's no moral qualifier on that. Maybe that's appropriate.

 _Don't overthink it_ , Cable says lightly. _Take it as it is._

 _Easy for you to say_.

He pushes the beer across the bar and makes to leave, patting his pockets for his keys and wincing when the motion pulls at his ribs. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t mix business and… and not business. That's always a mistake. He's not good at it.

“Can't convince you to stay?” Cable turns on his seat enough to prop his chin on his hand, one elbow on the pretentious white marble bar top.

Shitty choice for a bar, marble. Marble absorbs everything. Wine. Fat. Blood.

“I've got a--”

“Stay,” says Cable kindly. He slides Frank's beer back in front of him. “At least finish your beer before you ditch me.”

Fuck, Cable looks good. He's so goddamn big. The sleeves of his shirt are moulded to his biceps and tight across the shoulders, the collar of his shirt wilting a little from wear. Either he's oblivious to the figure he cuts or he's just a little vain, but Frank can't find it in himself to make a token complaint about either of those options. Not when he's sitting so close at the bar that Frank would probably bump up against his thigh if he turned on his stool just a little.

He stays.

There's something weird about the way his skin finishes at the collar though, and same ‘round his left arm. He squints and blinks. It blurs like it's out of focus, so fast that he might think it was his eyes if it didn't repeat every time he blinked.

“Problem?”

“Your arm looks weird,” he says, then catches himself. “Your arm looks like an arm.” God, he sounds fucking stupid.

“Image inducer,” says Cable casually. He turns out his elbow a little and this time Frank spots the illusion, a split second flash of warm living metal blurry against his sleeve before the overlay of skin reasserts itself. “Sometimes it's not worth the hassle.”

“Pity,” says Frank before he can bite his tongue.

Cable raises an eyebrow. “Pity?”

“Don't play cute,” he says gruffly. No point in denying anything to someone who can just snoop around his head and find out the truth in moments. “Don't pretend you don't know.”

“No idea what you're talking about.” He's smirking behind his pint glass. Frank can tell by the way the scars ‘round his eye crinkle up. There's a weird hot thrill twist in his guts, doubled when Cable reaches out, pauses, then pats Frank on the knee with that beautiful thick metal hand, hidden from view for an unappreciative audience.

Oh, goddamn. That's not fair. Cable _has_ to know that's not fair, even hidden under a shimmer of technology. It's a dirty trick that goes straight to Frank's dumb animal primal brain, always stupid and horny.

So sue him. There's something attractive about the smooth banded metal that makes up Cable’s arm, his hand, even his fingers. He's got himself off more than once to dirty fantasies of that hand on his balls, daydreaming about metal fingers choking his sac and tugging down until he feels like he's being cored out up the middle. That possibility of sickening nauseous pleasure and the inhuman strength of living metal on his tenderest flesh is a dizzying combination that gets him hard in seconds.

He squashes that image right as he feels Cable getting into his head, but not so fast that he can't hear the prick let out a shocked huff of surprise.

 _Shut up_ , he thinks sullenly. _Don't go snooping if you don't wanna find out stuff you don't want to know._

“I apologise,” he says, easy as breathing. “Should’ve asked first.”

Jesus fuckin’ christ. That's the thing Frank has never got about Cable. He legitimately can't tell if he selectively puts his heart on his sleeve or if he's honest all the time and Cable just happens to be one of those snakes who mastered the art of being honest in a way that obfuscates the truth completely. Either of the above he respects either way ‘cause using honesty like a diplomatic tool is a skill he’s let atrophy into nothingness. Not much use for it in his line of work, after all.

These days he’s only good at wielding honesty like a cudgel, mostly ‘cause it causes grown men to shit themselves in terror when someone plainly tells them how much their next few minutes are going to hurt, and hurt, and hurt. Not as elegant. Not as refined. Effective yet coarse. Frank all over, really.

“Yeah, well,” he says, slouching on his seat with his hand wrapped around the van keys in his pocket. “Ask next time.”

“Are you going to let me look next time?”

He gets that hot twisting feel in his gut again. “Maybe. Don't be a jackass and I'll see.”

Later, after another few rounds and another tray of little bullshit savoury things on spoons, he's got his chin on his hand staring at Cable.

“I owe you something,” Cable says. He's a little tipsy, pink in the cheeks and his silver hair curling on his forehead. Of all the things Frank ever expected to learn about Cable, him being a cheap drunk wasn't even on the list.

“You owe me lotsa things,” he says.

“Equal access,” he says cryptically, and Frank squints as he feels Cable slide into his head, the feel of him a little wobbly ‘round the edges.

 _It’s easier if I show you_ , says Cable. _Let me just--_

He's treated to an image of himself labouring over Cable, head hanging low and the muscles in his arms corded as he holds his body up, elbows locked and trembling. Cable, the Cable in his head, is all laid out beneath him, naked and huge. Those powerful thighs hold Frank back, knees pressed hard against his sides keeping him from doing anything more than rock into Cable with little pathetic hitches of his hips, desperate to fuck himself stupid. _C’mon_ , he sees himself say, sees himself let out a pathetic moan as Cable rubs his fingertips down the ugly zipper of flesh and metal down his chest and makes a show of shaking his head no. _Please_ , says Frank in the picture. He sounds desperate. Cable laughs and squeezes his pecs together, pushing them up enough that Frank - Frank in his head, the Frank in Cable’s head - can almost reach them if he strains his neck, desperate to bury his face in the sheer expanse of muscle. _Shh Frank_ , says Cable. _Good. Make me feel good then you can do whatever you want to me._

“Holy shit,” he blurts out, startling the bartender. The scene fizzles out with a static crackle and he blinks real fast, his brain feeling fuzzy underneath the fading overlay of someone else’s tipsiness. “Sorry,” he mumbles in apology, and makes a mental note to empty his pockets over and above the bartenders tip.

This bar is too fuckin’ nice for him. It’s probably too nice for Cable, even when he’s sober. Too goddamn fancy to be the place where a half-drunk telepath fucks his brain, and way too upmarket to be the first place he’s popped wood in public since he was a stupid horny teenager.

Hell.

He fishes his wallet from inside his jacket and lays out way too much money on the bar, avoiding the bartender’s eye. He’s gotta get out of here before he gives in to the impulse to do something dumb, like rub his hand up Cable’s thigh and grope him under the bar.

“Come on,” he says to Cable. “Get your big ass together.”

“Thanks,” Cable tells the bartender with a sunny smile.

He clutches at his keys in his pocket and tugs his jacket tight over his shoulders, praying that he’s not gonna embarrass himself by tenting his jeans when he stands up.

 _You’re fine_ , says Cable. The shape of his voice in Frank’s head has a heady fizzy quality, tickling his brain stem and making Frank feel warm under the collar. _I looked._

 _Get out of my head_ , he snaps back. _Give me five minutes, shithead._

_Too much? I apologise._

_No_ , he says, loud even in his own head. _No. Just… goddamnit. Stay here for five. Meet me across the park._

He's feeling much calmer by the time Cable ambles across the small park. Less like he's going to trip over his own tongue or bust in his jeans.

“You stupid prick,” he says by way of a greeting. “You dumb horny asshole.”

Cable grins. Honest to god grins, enough to show his teeth.

They stare at each other, Cable loose and a lil’ sloppy, Frank feeling increasingly wound tight.

“I can leave if you wa--”

“Follow me,” he says, cutting him off. If he blurts out an invitation then he can't get lost, strangled up his own thoughts like knotted string. He eyes Cable, big and flushed and smiling like he’s already fished all of this out of Frank’s head and he's been waiting for him to catch up, and scowls. “Don’t make me regret it.”

The route he takes back to his hideout is long and circuitous. It’s half to keep Cable sobering up, half to make himself there but not there under the watchful eye of traffic cameras. The huge mutant walking alongside him is all the distraction he needs to stay hidden in plain sight. Even if Cable has his arm and eye hidden under the artificial sheen of an image inducer, he’s still a head taller than Frank and his silver hair gleams in the thin afternoon sunlight. It was like he was made in a laboratory to be as attention grabbing as possible, and that suits Frank fine.

He doesn't think Cable even realises that after twenty minutes  or so of aimless walking they’ve ended up less than a block away from where they started in the park. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, but he still willingly follows Frank through a narrow services door and down into the steam tunnels under the street.

“I want to kiss you,” says Cable out of the blue. It's so unexpected that Frank dumbly says _okay_ before he can snap his jaw shut. Bad idea. Weak idea.

Any objections he might've had are out the window once Cable has him bundled against a wall, one massive hand gently cradling the curve of his skull like Frank is made of delicate china. He brushes his lips against Frank’s, sweetly chaste.

“Drop the inducer,” Frank says, craning back to he can get a bead on Cable without going crosseyed. “There's no one down here but m--”

The flare from Cable’s eye leaves a ghost behind when Frank blinks, burning blue inside his eyelids as the artificial overlay drops from Cable’s face and his body.

“C’mon,” he says brusquely. “C’mon.” He grabs the front of Cable's shirt and pulls him close to his side, half on, half off. Protecting his bruised ribs but offering up his good side so he can feel Cable’s weight push him against the cinderblock bulkhead, pinned down like a bug on a board.

Weird feeling, feeling small. Weirder still to be held like he's fragile, Cable holding him gently even as he's working a blood bruise into his neck, something high up where it's gonna show.

That thought makes his dick throb. Getting marked up. Getting branded. Getting owned. God, he's fucked. God, he hopes he's gonna get fucked.

Cable groans like he's been shot. Digs his fingers in Frank’s hips, bites his way up his neck and presses his teeth gently into the swell of Frank’s lip. The edge of his split lip tingles hot, close to breaking open again. “Frank.”

“Keep on walking.” He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, dumb as a big dog, and reluctantly pushes Cable away with a palm planted square in his chest. He needs a little space to get his head straight, otherwise he’s gonna drop to his knees and swallow Cable’s dick right here in a damp brick tunnel.

They keep on walking, Cable’s hand burning hot on the small of Frank’s back, left and right and left again until they reach a nondescript basement access door.

His safe house is as much an armoury as it is a place to sleep. A table, a cot, a camping stove. A narrow bench with a sink and a narrow chipped mirror. Frank has bled more pints down that sink than he cares to remember. He feels faintly nervous about letting Cable into his private space. Stupid. Weak thinking.

Cable gives him enough privacy to disengage the suicide locks on the door and follows him through, looking around the room with detached professional interest. His gaze slows down over the gun lockers covering the far wall, and Frank indulges himself by squeezing Cable’s massive biceps as a distraction.

“Business later,” Frank says, following his line of sight.

Cable laughs and drags Frank to him, hands on his shoulders as he leans down to kiss him. “Business now,” he says into Frank's mouth, feeling up the shifting flex of muscle over bone.

He spins him around, back pressed to his front, and presses his palm against the fly of Frank’s pants. By accident or design, no knowing which, he's looking at himself in the narrow mirror. Looking at Cable behind him, eye glowing bright in the dimly lit room, big metal fingers cupping him

He tries to fight down the twitch that rolls down his body. The urge to break loose. The urge to make space. The instinct of a predator trapped by a bigger predator, the roiling hot desire to fight warring against the unnatural urge to flee.

He's so fucking messed up. Jesus. Months he's been fantasising about this. _Months_. Months of working his dick raw thinking about Cable pushing him down and towering over him. Overpowering him. Making him feel small. Now he's got the real deal behind him and his fists itch and he's breathing so hard his ribs hurt and he's--

“Frank.”

Cable relaxes his grip, gently lifts his hands and shows his palms. _Frank_. _Breathe, Frank_.

“Shit,” he says tersely, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Shit.”

“Hey,” says Cable. “Take your time.”

“Don't.” He doesn't catch his own eye in the mirror. What a shitshow. Hell of a way to make a good impression. His head is starting to hurt again, and maybe this would be better called off right now before he taints any more of Cable’s good will and sours their working relationship.

 _Castle_. The sharp edge on his name cuts through the impending storm in his head. Clean slice. Clean cut. _Pull yourself together, Captain._

He waits - _one one thousand, two one thousand_ \- and pinches at the bridge of his nose in frustration. Stupid. Idiotic.

“Let me show you something,” says Cable, and edges his way into Frank’s mind.

It takes a while for Frank to get his bearings of what Cable is piping deep into his brain. Deep upstate New York, maybe. He vaguely remembers the job. Bad show. Too much of it went south; incorrect intel, floor plans that didn't account for extensions and remodeling. Twenty minutes in Cable hit the deck with a heavy wound in his left shoulder, the cut going deep enough to sever living metal tendons and left his arm hanging dead, leaving Frank to do the heavy lifting and clean up the loose ends.

Frank sees himself. He's clearing the room, and it's a mess. He watches himself howl like an animal as he charges a man into the wall, flinging blood into the air as he caves the goon’s face in with his knuckles and the butt of his pistol.

Jesus. Hell of a thing. He's never seen himself in action before. Never knew how his face contorts in ugly rage when he smashes his elbow into the fragile skin of a man’s temple, driving bone into brain with a sickening crunch. The death’s head on his chest is painted red with back spatter, he's smeared with red past his wrists, his nose is gushing red down his chin and neck. There's blood and meat and Frank grunts and pants as he pulps the man’s face into an unrecognisable mess.

 _What's black and white and red all over,_ says Cable dryly. _You know what I thought about you later, Frank?_

“Probably nothing that hasn't been said before,” says Frank gruffly.

Cable laughs out loud and rubs Frank's bicep, thumb sweeping in a slow arc across the back of his arm. “Stranger things have happened.”

Frank feels him at the back of his brain, anticipatory and eager. It puts a lil’ electricity down his own back, an empathic thrill echoing through his nerves without his permission and say-so.

The Frank in his mind has cleaned himself up a little, washed the worst of the blood from his skin and sealed up a flap cut loose on his nose with surgical glue. He's drinking a beer with his eyes closed, chin on his hand as he slumps against the chrome-trimmed table Cable keeps in the kitchenette of his Redwood safehouse. It's maybe an hour after they'd left the site wiped clean with plastic explosive and a telekinetic strike. Enough time to have the adrenaline clear their systems, and more than enough time to justify having a beer to cover up the jangle of nerves.

“Give me five,” says Cable, setting his half empty beer bottle down with a thump. “Need to wash up before I crust.”

Frank, memory-Frank, grunts in acknowledgement and rocks his beer a half-inch to the left in a lazy salute.

 _Tell me if you want me to get out of your head_ , says Cable, here and now. _If this is too much._

Cable is in the bare safehouse shower, more of a concrete corner than a recognisable bathroom. The shower is spitting water in fits and spurts, running hot enough that Cable’s healing arm fogs up. The water running down his body is tinged pink as it sluices him clean, but he's not washing himself. He’s got his half-recovered shoulder against the tiles and his hand on his dick as he jerks himself off, sloppy and quick. Thinking about Frank. Thinking about Frank putting down the man who dropped Cable, winding him with a shoulder to the rib cage and charging him into a concrete wall. Cable thinks about the way Frank’s shoulders moved under his tac vest as he pounded the mook’s face to minced meat, the bulk of his thighs as he straddled his prey. The way he'd pulled Cable to his feet, glove in bloody glove.

Frank, in action, filtered through Cable’s fantasy, is barbaric. He's unrestrained wild violence. He's--

Thinking about Frank, unhinged and unchained. Thinking about Frank giving him a startlingly white grin through the blood oozing down his nose, shouldering his weapons and standing at ease as Cable did the maths on their explosive load. Frank, two rooms over, filthy and exhausted and coming down hard from an adrenaline high. Frank flushed and fucked out, taking him against the damp shower wall and moaning like a dying man as he pumps Cable full of cum.

Frank, the Frank at the table drinking shitty domestic beer at Cable’s 50s Americana dinette table, puts on the radio and says _goddamn Rangers_ to an empty room. Cable fists his dick and shoots thick ribbons of semen into the water eddying ‘round his feet, panting through his open mouth to hold back a groan as he milks himself empty.

“Jesus,” says Frank before he can stop himself. The tickle of Cable leaving his head makes him shake his head on reflex.

“For the record we conducted that S&D ten months ago,” says Cable. He tugs at Frank's bicep until he takes the hint and turns around, still stiff and cautious despite himself. “You're not the only one being professional.”

Frank allows himself a bare twitch of a smile and wills himself to loosen his stance muscle by muscle. It's okay to want things, useless things. It's ok to want a respite from his war, just for a moment. It's okay to want.

He cautiously rests his palms on Cable's shirt. Not too close to his belt, not too close to his chest. Neutral territory. No man’s land. He can feel the rise and fall of Cable's diaphragm, slow and steady breaths under his touch.

The cotton of his shirt catches against the hard calluses on Frank’s hands. He carefully slides up, up, up the seemingly endless expanse of Cable's chest. Flesh under one hand, something harder under the other. He presses down with his fingertips, jumps when Cable lets out a deep rumble of pleasure.

_You can push me much harder than that, Frank._

He looks up and Cable is grinning at him, self-satisfied and a little smug. The smirk doesn't slip when Frank punches him, gentle-like, just enough to grind his knuckles into the thin meat over his sternum.

“Don't write checks your ass can't cash.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he says, and catches Frank's wrists - telegraphing his motions, sure, but not so slow that it's insulting - and drags his hands back up to his pecs, pushing into his grip so Frank’s got no choice but to get two big handfuls of Cable’s tits and squeeze. “Now that you know how appreciative I am of your… abilities.” He raises his eyebrows and Frank laughs.

This is… kinda nice, actually. He hasn't laughed ‘round sex in a long time. His fucks for the past few years have been quick and transactional; travellers in nice hotel rooms who use the same hookup apps, post the same kind of meat market profile picture he does, belly and pecs and just enough face to prove he’s real. It's not bad for what it is. It scratches the itch, resets the meter. He shows up, makes a little small talk and drinks something from their minibar while they make polite talk, lacquering on just enough social civility to cover up the truth that they're both only meeting up for a fuck. Every few weeks he fucks some guy keen to make his own New York memories on a nice firm hotel mattress, then cleans up in they guy's nice luxurious hotel shower, and bails before the small talk starts up again.

Ten years ago he would have dismissed that as too impersonal, but… hell. It’s easy. It works. He's okay with that. Sometimes it's incredibly good. Coupla weeks back a guy took him against plate glass 60 stories up, treated Frank like he was the one seeing the city for the first time. The room was so dark he could see nothing in the glass but the city all laid out pristine and sparkling, far enough below that he could divorce it from the blood and shit and filth he waded through on the reg.

He feels Cable easing into his brain, the slightest subtle tickle to give him away, and stubbornly keeps that image in his mind, holding it front and center so the nosy asshole has no chance of missing it.

The room is pitch black. Even the glowing clock radio is covered with a shirt, not a hint of light to reflect back in the pristine clean glass, dark enough that Frank’s hand pressing against the glass looks like a void against the city below.

His date was a nice flyover guy in a cornbread kinda way. Polite enough to hang Frank’s coat, eager enough to cuss under his breath in naked admiration when he unbuckles Frank’s belt. Big enough to drape himself over his back, pressed sweaty-sticky skin to skin, panting shit into his ear ‘bout how there’s no pussy quite like Frank back in whatever bumblefuck nowhere town he hails from.

 _If only he knew_ , says Cable. Frank ignores the bait for once in his life. Smartass.

He’s even not touching his dick, just panting into his elbow as the guy jackhammers into him. Frank is huffing so hard that his breath is fogging the window with every meaty slap of skin against skin, the city sliding and blurring as his eyes water from the intensity of Cornbread fucking him, ramming him into the glass and dragging his orgasm up outta his gut. He's gonna blow rope onto the shiny city at his feet no matter what, and all he can do is rock back into it and take it, take it so good, take it--

Cable swears in his head and the blaze of his eye flares against the glass, wipes out the twinkle of city lights. The relentless pounding is snatched away from him. Instead there's a warm mouth at his hole, giving him hard flat licks just how he likes it. There are hands all over him, cupping and holding and teasing, too many hands to be Cable, too many hands to be _real_. The radiant light Cable casts shines like a halo around Frank, dipping and flaring as Cable eats him out in desperate hungry passes of his mouth, moaning like a starving man at a feast. The hands pinch his nipples and squeeze at his throat, and he's gone - off, flying, making god knows what noises - as he feels that terrifying, inexorable pressure of metal fingers holding his balls, tighter and tighter by degrees.

“Jesus,” he gasps. “Fuck. Goddamn, _fuck_.”

There's no city, there's no glass. He's fully dressed under cold industrial lighting, his cock so hard against his zipper that it hurts, panting like a dog into the deep valley between Cable’s pecs.

_Can you come from that, Frank?_

“Yeah,” he says. “Nearly.” He doesn't want to step back. He should step back. Cable’s shirt smells like a day of honest sweat and a splash of spilled beer. It's good. It goes right to his head, goes straight to his dick.

“Nearly?” Cable rests his hands on Frank's shoulders, gently at first, waiting for him to fight the urge to flinch.

“The hands,” Frank says, his voice muffled by Cable's shirt. “Minute more of that and it'd be a different story.” He groans and peels himself away, quietly allows Cable to turn him around to face the mirror again.

A phantom touch skirts down his jaw, smooths up his thighs, settles possessively at the small of his back.

“More,” orders Frank. He spreads his legs a little, shuffles into parade rest with his feet shoulder-width apart.

Cable chuckles self consciously. “That's about all I can manage,” he says sheepishly. “It's easier in my head. Out here I'm too busy keeping this--” he raises his metal hand, thick fingers rubbing together, “--together to do tricks.”

He's got no idea what that means. Probably not important to know, ‘least not right at this moment, not with Cable's real flesh’n’metal hands busy sliding under his arms and curling ‘round his torso to settle on his chest. Cable gropes him shamelessly, pinching his nipples hard enough that they bud up and show through his shirt. All the while he's watching Frank’s face in the dirty little mirror, and for once Frank can't make himself be quiet as he twists and squirms under Cable’s relentless assault.

Feels like it'd be dishonest to shove down the urge to pant and whine, not when Cable can read his face in the mirror. Hell, not when Cable could look into his head and _see_ how much Frank likes this. All of it. Likes feeling small. Likes feeling like someone might have the strength to walk all over him and bring that feral mad dog that lives in his brain to heel. Likes the idea of being ordered to roll over and show his tender belly; that Cable can find all his weak spots and use ‘em to make Frank feel good, use Frank to make _him_ feel good.

He groans when the ghostly touch takes over tormenting his chest and Cable works his belt open, watching his reflection as he eases it loose, notch by notch. The worn zipper of Frank’s jeans gives out under pressure the second Cable undoes his fly, pulling itself apart as the jut of his cock surges forward, only restrained by his briefs. The plain grey cotton is stained a dark incriminating slate where Frank has been leaking into his shorts, and he closes his eyes in mortification as Cable gently rubs at the evidence of Frank’s arousal.

“Captain Castle,” says Cable, stooping low enough that his lips brush against the curve of Frank's ear. “Have you been making a mess?”

“Yessir,” he says on autopilot.

No way to hide how Cable gets all heated at the accidental honorific, ‘specially not when he drags Castle bodily back against him and grinds his dick hard into the plump swell of Frank’s ass. “Inexcusable,” he says, still toying with his underwear, massaging the head of Frank’s dick with rapidly cooling sticky cotton.

“Can't help it when a telepath tries fucking my brain,” he says, pushing his luck. “Circumstances beyond my control.”

“Should've had a contingency plan.” Cable chuckles at the shitty look Frank levels at him.

“Maybe.” He holds his gaze through the mirror, unblinking, and pushes at the elastic of his shorts, letting his dick spring free with a slap against Cable’s hand. “Pretty good at improvising on the fly though, _sir._ ”

He makes a thoughtful noise, in agreement or dismissal, Frank can't tell and truthfully doesn't care. He smears the wet beading at the lip of Frank's foreskin, parting his fingers to let it web delicately between his fingertips. “Show me how you like it, Frank.”

“Can't you--” Frank taps at the side of his head.

“Nope,” says Cable, with that shit-eating grin that Frank's always thinking about smacking off that boxy head. “Not now, Captain.”

He grunts with annoyance and yanks Cable's hand down to his cock, wraps those huge fingers ‘round himself and huffs like the air has been punched outta him at the sight between his thighs.

Cable fists Frank’s dick in one enormous hand, big enough to cover him from root to tip with only the head of his dick showing. He's always run wet but the sight of his manhood being easily dwarfed by Cable - yet another way that he's physically outmatched by him, height and width and weight - already has him pumping out a steady hot trickle, a fat clear droplet pearling up and dribbling onto Cable’s fingers. He jacks him with a loose grip, getting a feel for Frank thick and hard in his hand.

“Tight,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I like it tight. Choke it.”

Cable tightens his grip and works him slow, watching him in the mirror. When he peels away to lick his fingers clean and spit in his palm, a phantom pressure of those big fingers stays on his dick, keeps up the agonisingly slow pace until Cable takes him back in hand, looping his fingers right ‘round the crown of Frank's cock until he grunts and fucks forward, desperate for more contact.

“You said you were going to make me feel good,” he says.

 _You don't feel good, Frank?_ Cable’s voice in his head gives him a full body shiver. He sounds hungry. Hell of a feeling, that. Like Cable can and would eat him alive if given permission.

“Could feel better.”

Cable laughs and rolls his hips in a slow lazy grind against Frank. He’s plastered against him from neck to knee, a solid wall of muscle that Frank leans into, pressing back against the fat weight of Cable’s dick and forward into into the tight choke of his hand. He sways back and forth, using the big man behind him to slowly get himself off. Cable plays with him, tightening and relaxing his grip, groping him with his metal hand, catching him ‘round the chin and forcing him to watch himself in the mirror. He bites at Frank’s ear and, when he complains that it makes his sciatic nerve twinge in sympathy, instantly does it again.

“I know what I saw in your head before,” he says, breath tickling Frank’s ear. The metal hand strokes at his hip, feather light touches that are irritating as they are gentle. Frank twitches under his exploring hand and the fingers on his dick tighten in warning. “I know what you want, Castle.”

“Suck me,” he says petulantly.

Cable laughs at him. “That's not what I saw,” he says, teasing. He squeezes Frank gently, one finger at a time, a rippling band of constriction down his dick that makes him dig his toes into his boots. “I saw you--,” he pats Frank’s hip like he'd pat a dog, “--thinking about me hurting these.” That terrible metal hand strokes down his thigh, as far as the unbuckled pants on Frank’s hip will allow, then cups Frank’s balls.

That hand is awful, in the good Catholic sense of the word. It strikes awe into Frank, as terrifying as it is alluring. He's seen that hand crush a man’s trachea single handedly. He's watched the metal weep bright fresh blood before sealing itself back up strand by strand, alive and unsettling. He's watched Cable backhand a bouncing grenade like it was a tennis ball, ricocheting off his wrist with a dull clunk. Those thick gleaming fingers roll his balls delicately, gently tugging down until his breath hitches at the first warning twinge in his gut.

Cable could, without any real effort, rip Frank’s dick and balls off without breaking a sweat. That thought - that awful, sickening, confusingly sexual thought - gets him even harder in Cable's flesh hand. He avoids catching his eye in the mirror, even as he feels Cable rummaging around in his head and inspecting each and every little truth about how much he wants Cable to make him feel…

...make him feel...

“Pull your shirt up, Frank,” Cable says, letting his genitals go with a mean lil’ flick of his fingernails. “Up under your chin. Show me your tits before I squeeze those pretty balls of yours.”

His cheeks flush traitorously red, bright as beacons in the mirror. “Shut up,” he says weakly, fighting back the urge to rut into Cable's grip and grind back against the solid press of Cable's erection at his back. He makes himself stand stock-still, chest heaving as he sucks down big lungfuls of air.

Cable stills his hands and waits patiently. His expression over Frank’s shoulder isn't impatient, or pitying, or any other expression that makes Frank’s fists itch. He’s neutral, waiting while Frank stalls out, twitchy and annoyed with himself for it.

“Fuck you,” he says eventually, more for the look of the thing than any real annoyance with the situation he's in. Not worth fighting himself over, really. Cable makes a low appreciative noise as Frank holds the hem of his shirt under his chin, forced to look through his lashes if he wants to see the way Cable stares at him hungrily in the mirror, like a starving man offered a feast.

“Gorgeous,” says Cable. He leaves Frank with his dick hanging out of his jeans like a goddamn fool and busies himself playing with Frank’s pecs, cupping and squeezing them like… well, like a pair of tits. “Your finest assets, Captain Castle.”

“Thought that was my guns,” he says, voice muffled down into his chest. Cable is doing something amazing with his nipples and it's driving him to distraction. Never knew he liked ‘em being played with like this; Cable pressing and pinching until Frank can feel it pull and tug all the way down to his ribs, a deep ache that turns into something spectacular as it keeps on building and building, burning molten hot down into his core.

“Absolutely not,” says Cable, and the flare of golden light from his eye dips momentarily as he winks. “You know I only keep you around for your looks.”

He steals his hand back down, brushing against the grain of hair on Frank’s belly, teasing and tugging the thick bush of pubic hair with his metal fingertips until Frank sighs with an aggrieved put-upon air.

“Never picked you for the teasing type.”

“You didn't pick me for shit, Captain Castle.” Cable smiles with a few too many teeth. “Think about all that time you wasted.”

Frank gives him an incredulous look from under his eyebrows, not missing a beat even as Cable presses his thumb against his frenulum and makes him shiver. “Me? Don't you do some time travel bullshit?”

“Irrelevant,” says Cable flippantly.

“Convenient.”

“Very. Hands together, wrist over wrist. Keep ‘em on your chest.” He spits on his palm and takes Frank in hand, jerking him off in short tugs. The damp metal feels alien and alluring both. His hand isn't quite slick enough to slide smooth, every subtle banded ridge sliding over the sensitive ridge of his dick making him huff.

Cable stoops to press a wet open-mouthed kiss at his jaw and Frank twists and strains to crane backwards, offering himself up for the taking. His shirt falls down a little, barely past his ‘pits and crumpled where he’s sweated into it. If he looks in the mirror he's gonna see himself laid bare from collar to cock, like Cable has peeled him open and left him vulnerable, fleshy and exposed.

He hates it. He fuckin’ loves it.

His dick pumps wet when Cable kisses him, mauling his mouth with the press of sharp teeth as he grinds that fat cock against his ass. The smooth bowl of Cable's palm rubbing over the head of his dick makes him pant, jerking bodily as his nerves squeal in a feedback loop of over-sensitivity. The way his precum lubes Cable’s hand makes every subtle ridge of living metal feel huge, bumping over the exposed glans and pulling at his piss slit, the feeling horrible and incredibly fucking good as Cable keeps up that rolling rub and his nerves jangle and slowly coalesce into a burning pressure.

“Don't,” he pants. “Don't, don’t, _don’t_. Gonna-- gonna piss if you keep doing that.”

For a heartbeat he thinks Cable isn't going to stop. He's gonna keep on over-sensitising Frank until his nerves short out and his bladder goes, and then that's it, no coming back from that one. The thought repulses him. The thought makes his cock jump in Cable's hand, and for a nauseous second he thinks he might blow his load right then and there.

 _Next time_ , Cable says in his head. His shirt sticks to the clammy sweat on Frank’s back. _One day. Say the word, Frank._

That's… he doesn't know what to think about that. He’s teetering along the yawning chasm of the unknown, racing full speed with Cable at his heels, terrified and excited and sprinting headlong into things he's never even thought about before.

But, if he doesn't think about it then he doesn't have to focus on why his dick is so hard it hurts, or why he's this turned on by someone who can't even stay out of his head.

He likes to plan things. He doesn't like surprises. Two hours ago he was fighting down a headache and wondering what was the point of a bar serving cheeseburgers no bigger than his palm, with no plans except going home to his apartment to watch the Rangers wash out. Maybe he'd get himself off before the third, feet up on his couch as he strokes one out efficiently and robotically, thinking about nothing at all. Sure as shit he wouldn't be thinking about a huge mutant getting into his head and watching from the most intimate seat in the house as Frank comes in thick spurts all over his hand.

Cable swears in his head, something jarringly old fashioned and quaint. _Say the word_ , he says feverently, his excitement so loud that it reverberates through Frank’s skull like a church organ. _Oath, Frank, any time you want._

This time he doesn't have to stagger into Frank's mind to bring up a recollection of Cable's fizzy half-drunk fantasy, not when Frank readily shows him. Makes it the focus of his imagination, forces it front and center so Cable can't miss every single detail.

Like, the way the muscles in his arms stain to hold himself in an extended push-up over Cable. New scars pull tight and old injuries make his shoulders burn and his core shake with effort and adrenaline. He's desperate to mindlessly shove himself into the tight heat of that exquisite body yet holding himself in check. Not just because Cable's massive thighs are pinning him in place, but because Frank is disciplined enough to stay still, no matter how much his dumb mouth might be blurting out otherwise.

He's not as big as Cable. He's not as powerful as Cable. But he's more stubborn than Cable, and more disciplined than Cable, and he can keep himself notched barely in Cable until his dick goes soft and still not move a muscle because _he's better at this than Cable._

 _You are_ , says Cable in his head. He's got his arms wrapped ‘round Frank, his chin hard on Frank’s shoulder, hunched over him and pushing him down, down, down. _That's what I appreciate about you, Captain Castle._ He mouths at his jaw, teeth scraping against stubble. It makes Frank shiver like he's freezing, a full body shake that he can't fight down.

 _You're stubborn and bull-headed and you're all instinct._ He reaches down and cups Frank's balls in his metal fingers, taking their weight, feeling their heft. _Everything you can do is because you're the best, Frank. You’ve earned every win you've had because you work for it, you strive for it._ He gently drums his fingertips against the fragile soft skin at the back of Frank’s sac, tap tap tap, then flicks him hard.

“ _Shit_.”

He huffs hard and fights down the urge to kick. Cable’s free hand smooths up his arm and pulls his hands back to his chest, tucking them tight against his sternum. The ghost of his touch sticks around even as Cable turns his attention elsewhere, his wrists pinned by an invisible force.

_Good?_

“You know it's good,” he snaps. “C’mon.” Frank grunts, and shuffles his legs wider, staring daggers at Cable in the mirror.

Cable chuckles, the shithead, and busies himself playing with Frank’s dick instead. Not enough to get him off, just enough to keep him hard and running wet. The sting in his testicles has just about faded when Cable flicks him again, and again, again again again, five times in sharp succession.

This time he doubles over and wheezes. Cable lets him go, lightly touching his back, waiting for him to recover.

“If you were anyone else I’d tell you that you don't have to prove anything to me,” says Cable, his thumb rubbing small circles over the dip of Frank’s spine. “But not you, Castle. I couldn't do anything to you that you didn't let me.”

 _Damn right_ , thinks Frank. He could have Cable hogtied on the floor in a minute if he wanted, aching balls be damned. The thought is… surprisingly comforting, even as Cable hauls him upright, his metal fingers stroking his dick lightly before dipping between his thighs. This is his home turf. He's better at this than Cable.

Cable mumbles incoherent bullshit into his neck, muffled and inaudible, working his blood bruise all over again to make it deeper and darker. He taps and flicks at Frank’s balls, hard and soft, until Frank is panting and whining in his arms.

Every time he twists in Cable's grip he can feel the solid push of the erection at his back.

_This doing it for you, Summers?_

He feels Cable's laugh shiver down his back.

“You have _no_ idea,” Cable says, rough and wanting. “No idea at all.” He grinds hard against Frank, hunched over his back and groping at him, running his hands over the curve of Frank's belly, taking his cock in both hands and making approving noises as Frank mindlessly thrusts into the tight channel of his fingers.

“I'm gonna come,” he says desperately. Big metal fingers choke his balls and tug down, hard enough to wrench his orgasm out from underneath him and send a nauseous swoop churning his belly. He grunts and comes dry, holding onto Cable’s forearm as he screws his eyes shut and humps his fist, each wrench of his hips tugging at his testicles, so good and so bad and so… so…

“Hold it,” snarls Cable, bodily wrenching Frank around and pushing him against the sink. He picks him up like he weighs nothing and dumps him on the bench, yanking his jeans and underwear down so it bunches around his boots, trapping him by the ankles. Frank grabs him by the neck and pulls him down - and it's such a long way down, Cable's towering height dragged down to Frank's level - and kisses him desperately. His split lip tears again, a sharp needling pain that stings and burns, but he can't find it in himself to care. Not when Cable is towering over him, taking his mouth deep while he frantically unbuckles his own belt and fumbles for his fly.

“Let me,” says Frank, knocking his hands away and pulling each button free from the worn denim, pop pop pop. He doesn't recognise his own voice. He's not capable of sounding so excited.

He yanks Cable's briefs down and gets his hands on that fat dick for the first time, and god, it's like _his_ first time all over again. He can't stop staring. Cable's cock is stupidly pretty, as far as dicks go. A flushed rosy pink head and trim foreskin, the shaft solid and weighty in Frank's palm. There are no metal parts, and he's not sure if that's a good thing or--

“Don't look so disappointed,” says Cable wryly, as amused as a man getting reverently fondled could possibly sound. “Everyone _always_ looks disappointed when they see it.”

He makes a vague noise of agreement, not really listening. God, he wants to suck it so bad. His mouth is watering like Cable is a steak dinner, and all he can think about is getting on his knees and seeing how deep he can swallow him before he runs out of air or gags up his lunch, or both.

“Next time,” says Cable, tipping Frank’s head up with a thumb pressed under his chin. He looks him up and down, neck to knee. “You can do whatever you want to me next time.”

He bullies his way between Frank’s knees, forcing him to brace his heels against the bench to spread himself wide enough to accommodate the mass of Cable’s bulk. One of them - both of them - makes a throaty groan when Frank spits on his own dick and drags him close to rub against each other, frotting frantic and out of sync.

He yanks Cable close and presses his teeth to the seam of metal zippering down his neck, and grins feral when Cable breathes out an instant hoarse plea for more. He worries his teeth into the bulge of flesh over metal and licks away the sting, and sucks a nasty bruise high under his ear as Cable thrusts hard against Frank, chasing his own orgasm as fast as he can.

“Gonna come,” says Cable hoarsely, head bowed as he grinds into Frank’s thigh. “You want it or--””

“Christ, yeah.” Frank sounds like a prize idiot and he can’t make himself even pretend to care. “Come on me. Nathan, c’mon.” His balls feel hot and tight and swollen, suffering the sweet little agonies of Cable working him over so nicely, and he’s desperate to feel the hot wash of Cable blowing all over him before he’ll allow himself the freedom of release. “Anywhere you want it.”

Cable paws at his neck and crushes his mouth against his, huffing loud enough to raise the dead when his hips jitter out of sync and he pumps his cock. He cums all over Frank’s belly in big thick ropes, hanging his head as he works himself empty, smearing the head of his cock through the mess he’s left behind until it’s rubbed into Frank’s skin, matted into the hair on his stomach.

“C’mon pretty boy,” he says into Frank’s mouth, cupping his hands to Frank’s face and holding him down, like Frank was ever gonna get off this bench and take himself away from this moment. “You gonna come for me, Captain? You gonna--”

A touch ghosts along the length of Frank’s dick and stops at his slit. It pushes gently against the slit, a broad press like a thumb, then a sharper fine point, threatening to push inside.

His orgasm hits him like a truck, surging up from his gut and catching him by surprise. He digs his hands into Cable’s arms, flesh and metal, and makes an ugly choked up grunt as his dick throbs and he comes untouched, thick pumps of semen spilling down his shaft and pearling in his pubic hair.

The room is silent except for their heavy breathing, panting out of sync.

They stare at each other for one long moment until Frank laughs, a rusty iron gate noise that sounds too loud in the small boxy space of his safe house.

It's a sound he's almost forgotten, laughing. Weird. Weird discovery to make, sitting there with his cock going soft on his thigh and a mess of cooling semen smearing into his skin, Cable's big hands warm on his hips.

Some things are still worth laughing at. It's okay to want these moments, useless moments. It's ok to want a respite from his war, just for a moment. It's okay.

“So,” says Cable, hesitating for a split second before he kisses him, a brush of his lips on the side of his mouth as sweetly chaste as that first kiss in the steam tunnel. Was that twenty minutes ago? Feels like hours, decades even. “I believe you were going to show me your guns.”

Frank gives him a lopsided smile. “This your big plan? Get me off to get into my stash?”

“Definitely,” says Cable, stepping back. “Did it work?”

“Oh yeah.” He slides off the bench, hips stiff, and twists on the hot water tap. Cable's cum on his belly is starting to cool, rapidly going from the sexiest thing imaginable to fucking disgusting. “For sure. You got me.”

Cable catches his eye in the little mirror. “Good,” he says. “I'm gonna do it again.”

“Good,” Frank echoes. He starts wiping himself clean, or clean enough not to crust, and makes a pleased lil’ noise when Cable presses against his back and rests his hands on Frank's bare hips. He barely flinches. Feels too nice to get twitchy, having all that bulk at his back. He looks up, catching Cable’s eye in the mirror again. “Telling you right now though,” he says casually. “If you want to get into my van you're gonna have to buy me dinner first.”

**Author's Note:**

> i post a lot of bad comix garbage at [stryfeposting](https://stryfeposting.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. say hi.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Choke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600355) by [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin)




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